


The Wrong Way Home

by bongbingbong



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate timeline where Starfleet doesn't exist, Bones has ptsd, Gen, I simply do not care for historical accuracy, M/M, Spock is still a Vulcan, Western AU, minor and also probably highly inaccurate depictions of old west doctoring, minor depictions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: An alternate universe where Bones is an old country doctor, and Spock has run away from Vulcan to Old-West-Earth, and gets a job as a delivery man. Bones knows there's something up, but he can't quite put his finger on what.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49
Collections: Star Trek: Just in Time Fest





	The Wrong Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> This originated from a post in the Trek Triumvirate discord server, where an idea emerged where Spock is still Spock from his own timeline, but Bones and Jim are AU versions of themselves living in the past. 
> 
> I really liked the idea because it had City from the Edge of Forever vibes, and also for the idea that Spock and Bones will find each other no matter what timeline they're in, and even if they're in the wrong ones for this go-around.

Bones didn’t mourn the day Jamieson stopped showing up to make deliveries. As much as he needed the steady reliability of his various medicines and materials showing up on time, he did not particularly enjoy the inevitable interruption of the other man deciding that mid-consultation was a great time to stop for a lengthy chat. Bones had patients to see, and he got precious little time to himself during the day without having to worry about inane gossip from the next town over. So when Spock showed up one day instead of Jamieson and simply said “Doctor McCoy?” in a low, quiet voice, Bones counted his blessings. 

When this exact exchange continued with no change, however, Bones started to worry. Was the man being impolite, when he simply nodded and left? Was it something about doctors in general? Or Bones himself? No, he didn’t hate the idea of being rid of Jamieson’s idiotic ramblings, but this was just as strange.

He said as much to Jim one night, during the weekly dinner they shared. As the Sheriff, Jim didn’t get much time to see his best friend anymore but nothing short of an emergency was going to stop him from making sure they had a moment, once a week.

“I’m pleased you’re so taken with him already,” said Jim with a grin, “he’s an odd sort but he seems nice enough. Talks like some sort of professor, though.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Bones, pushing the food on his plate around with his fork. He didn’t have to look up, but he knew Jim would be watching him with that amused twinkle he got in his eyes sometimes, and the thought irritated him.

“I’m sure he’s just shy,” said Jim, “he keeps to himself, mostly. Hell, in between deliveries and running the telegraph office it’s amazing he has any time to talk at all.”

“Hmm,” grunted Bones, not convinced. 

“Well okay then, have _you_ tried talking to him?” said Jim.

Bones rolled his eyes, and Jim clapped.

“I knew it!” he said, “you didn’t say a word and you’re mad that he’s not talking to you! Come on Bones, you can do better than that.”

“I’d best be goin’,” said Bones, “when you start makin’ sense, I know something’s up with the world.”

“Not before you’ve finished your dinner,” said Jim, in a perfect imitation of Bones’ broad accent, “you’re as thin as a rake.”

“Dunno why I bother fussin’ at all if that’s how you’re gonna repay me,” muttered Bones, although he did finally begin to eat.

*

A few days later, Bones’ heart jumped when Spock’s measured _tap tap_ sounded at his door. He was halfway through changing a dressing, but called a flustered “come in!” at the door anyway.

“Doctor McCoy?” said Spock, holding a couple of small crates marked _FRAGILE_.

“Spock,” said Bones, finishing up the dressing and helping Fisher to his feet. Poor man had injured his leg trying to fix a fence, of all things. 

“Thanks, doc,” said Fisher. 

“No problem,” replied Bones, watching Spock set his things down out of the corner of his eye. Here was his chance.

“How’re the deliveries going today, Spock?” he said, trying to keep his tone light and failing miserably. He winced.

“Have I arrived outside of my usual schedule today?” said Spock, checking his watch. 

Satisfied that he was indeed still on schedule, he snapped it shut.

“No, I just - was wondering how it was going.”

“Everything is going as it should, Doctor, rest assured. I will need to end this conversation now in order to ensure that it remains thus.”

And with that, Spock was gone, Fisher limping close behind him with a parting wave.

*

Subsequent encounters did not improve. Whenever Spock showed up, it always seemed to be during an inopportune moment, one where Bones’ mind was too focused on something else to remember what interesting conversation starters he had come up with. At least, that’s the reason Bones gave himself for why he seemed to be going nowhere. They fell into a new rhythm then - one of one-sided conversations where Bones could not stop himself from seemingly becoming a brand new iteration of Jamieson.

“So, where are you from anyway?”

“A long way away.”

“Ah, how far?”

“My apologies Doctor, I was not aware that this information was required for me to complete my deliveries efficiently.”

Was he asking the wrong questions? It did seem like Spock was cagey about anything to do with his personal life. Not that he could figure out why - how much could you have to hide, in between his two jobs? Except perhaps when he found the time to sleep.

“Been pretty hot out lately, hasn’t it?”

“I am aware of the weather patterns in this area; I spend markedly more time outdoors when you compare our two professions.”

“Want a drink then?”

“I am adequately hydrated, thank you.”

It was true, for a man who spent his days riding around the surrounding towns and haling boxes, Spock barely even seemed to break a sweat. None of it made sense. Surely he hadn’t offended the strange man with his questions? They were innocuous enough.

These were the thoughts that swirled through his mind as he sat outside his cabin one night. He lived just off the main street, where he could be found easily in an emergency by both people in town and people arriving in search of him. It was late - or perhaps early - and he knew from the faint tremor that made its way from deep within him and radiated out to his arms and legs that it was going to be a bad night for sleeping tonight. Instead he sat on a crate and watched the flickering of the main street torches illuminate the dirt path while he sipped at a whiskey. The sky was clear tonight, and the air still and warm in a way that did nothing to alleviate the faint sick feeling that pressed at his chest. He drew a deep breath that somehow didn’t satisfy his need for air, and tried to exhale the nervous energy coursing through him. When that didn’t work, he decided to go for a walk.

The main street was deserted now - it was certainly too late for even the latest of workers to still be up. Up ahead he could hear the faint sounds of Diamond Decker’s saloon, still going strong as it would all through the night. But other than that, there was peace and quiet in the street to savour. Bones focused on the passing shadows of the torches, refusing to let his mind wander to any of the what-ifs and could-have-beens that went hand in hand with being a doctor. There were claws in those shadows that could drag a man down somewhere he might never come back from.

Bones stopped abruptly just outside the telegraph office. Lamps still burned brightly in the windows, which were filthy enough that Spock looked like a person-shaped smudge through the glass. So that was how he managed it all - the man must be working around the clock to get everything done. That seemed excessive. Jim can’t have known about it, and Bones resolved to have a word with him. Perhaps Spock was so irritable simply because he was tired.

*

“Bones, I know you like to fuss but-”

“I’m not _fussin’,_ you’ve got your man out there working himself half to death to-”

“What Mr Spock does in his free time is none of your-”

“Oh, so is that what you’re callin’ it now?”

Bones stood in the Sheriff’s office, his arms crossed, blocking Jim from leaving. Not that he’d be able to hold his ground if Jim genuinely wanted him out of the way, but right now the younger man had his hands full trying to figure out what his friend was so angry about.

“Bones,” he said, his brow furrowed in confusion, “Spock’s schedule isn’t even as full as mine - he checks in at the telegraph office most mornings and then he might make a visit to a nearby town. If he’s working late into the night that’s his own business.”

“Well that’s-” Bones spluttered, wringing his hands, “that’s not - he shouldn’t be-”

“Bones,” said Jim, though his voice had softened, “I know you worry but Spock’s a grown man. If he wants to work on whatever he’s got going on in there through the night, he can do that.”

“S’pose.”

“Unless you’d rather go make sure he’s all tucked in nice and cozy?”

Bones opened his mouth to fire out another angry retort, but made the mistake at looking at Jim first. The man was all impish smile and eyes that sparked with mischief, and he found that the anger drained from him as quickly as it had come.

“Well. Thanks Jim.”

“Anytime, Bones. God knows you’ve done the same for me enough times.”

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it,” grumbled Bones, though he gave Jim a small wink as he opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight.

Outside it was hot, middle-of-the-day kind of hot, and Bones hurried back to the shade of his cabin. He could see Spock knocking at his door as he approached, having unloaded several crates that Bones knew were new, clean bedding, bandages, and various parts for a leg harness.

“Spock!” he called, and the man in question turned to see who had spoken. The doctor in Bones noted that he had reacted slowly, that his movements were sluggish, even from here.

“Lemme give you a hand with those boxes.”

“I assure you, Doctor McCoy, that will not be-”

Bones lifted the crate, nudging the door with his hip.

“It’s no trouble,” he said, kicking the door the rest of the way open.

Spock said nothing, but picked up the remaining two boxes and followed him in. 

It was a little cooler inside, and Bones sighed with relief as he set everything down. Spock was silent beside him, but as he turned to leave Bones caught his sleeve. Spock inhaled sharply and Bones let go, watching curiously as Spock briefly held both hands to his chest.

“Sorry,” said Bones, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Your actions seemed rather intentional to me,” said Spock, and _oh_ \- Spock hadn’t been cold at all before. Perhaps he really did just have an odd way of speaking. Spock hadn’t been cold, because _this_ was Spock when he was cold and irritated, and bordering on angry. Bones felt himself go numb with horror.

“I’m sorry,” said Bones, “wait a minute, please.”

Spock put his hands back down at his sides and then let out a long exhale as his fists unclenched.

“I am waiting.”

What could he say to that? Hey, you look tired. I figured I could - what? What could Bones possibly offer in the way of respite? What Spock did in his own time was his own business. Bones cursed inwardly as Spock hovered there for a moment longer, then raised an eyebrow, tipped his hat, and left him standing there in his cabin, mortified.

*

Bones began to dread Spock’s arrivals at his cabin. They had gone back to square one, the polite acknowledgement of each others’ names, before Spock would turn to leave once more, taking a little piece of Bones’ sanity with him every time. The room felt colder every time Spock came and went, as though his mere presence sucked the heat out of the room and left Bones with the irrational need to wrap his arms around himself. Inevitably if he was with a patient, the exchange would end with a comment on Spock’s terrible manners, or on what a bizarre person he was. Either way, Bones was glad when he reached a stretch where he required no replenishment of any of his supplies or any new equipment. 

A couple of weeks passed like this before Bones found himself in need of some timber to make some repairs with, of all things. The gentlemen at the general store were more than happy to make the order for him, but insisted on having everything delivered directly to him. Well, he couldn’t hide from Spock forever.

When that unmistakable knock came once more, Bones was alone.

“Come in,” he said, and smoothed his suddenly sweaty palms down the front of his shirt. When the door swung open though, he startled.

If Spock had looked weary the last time he had seen him, he looked completely exhausted now. His eyes had an odd sunken look to them, ringed with dark shadows. Their usual sharpness was clouded, his eyes unfocused from lack of sleep.

“Doctor McCoy,” he said, and his voice sounded like gravel, “where would you like this?”

Spock indicated the bundle of wooden planks he had hauled up to his door.

“Uh.”

Bones wanted to say “around the back,” but he couldn’t bring himself to make Spock do it.

“There’s fine. Thank you.”

Spock frowned.

“Here is not a good spot for this. Perhaps if you have room out the back?”

“No, it’s fine. Leave it.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?” said Bones, “come on Spock, give us one of those ‘Doctor, your propensity for illogical choices never fails to astound me,’ or-”

Spock sighed and turned to leave, but Bones went after him.

“Wait!” he called, “wait, I’m sorry. I just-”

“Doctor, I apologise for being blunt with you but I am on a schedule. I have no time for your… needling.”

“I’m not trying to needle, I’m just trying to talk dammit! I just can’t figure out how the hell to do that with you because no matter what I say or do I just keep getting it wrong!”

Spock stared at him, and there was surprise there. Good, surprise he could work with.

“Schedules be damned, just this once. Come inside, have a drink. I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ it but you look like you’re about to keel over.”

“An exaggeration as always, Doctor,” replied Spock, but he made no move to leave.

“Uh huh, sure. Looked in the mirror lately?”

Spock did not dignify this with an answer, and instead followed Bones inside. 

There wasn’t a lot of furniture - Bones didn’t do a lot of entertaining, but there was a bedside chair (that Bones often dozed in while keeping an eye on patients) and the bed itself.

“Take a seat,” said Bones, indicating the chair. Spock seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he folded himself elegantly into the chair, sitting bolt upright. Bones grabbed a bottle of whisky - the good stuff he kept for special occasions (or especially bad nights) and poured each of them a glass.

“Here, it’s not the swill you get at Decker’s, I promise,” he said, passing Spock his glass and sinking down onto the bed.

“I would not know,” said Spock. He held the glad between his palms and stared down into it. He was silent for a moment longer, but then-

“Thank you,” he said, finally meeting his eyes. Bones felt his heart clench at how desperately tired he seemed, but carefully packed the feeling away.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, “I know I’ve been botherin’ you every time you come over. I want you to know I’m just tryin’ to be friendly, I don’t mean any harm or meanness.”

“I believe I should apologise as well,” said Spock, “I find that often I can misinterpret the intentions of people from this-” 

He paused, cutting himself off.

“What I mean,” he said, this time a little more slowly and carefully, “is that the people from this area of the… country often say things that I misinterpret easily. Your people have some interesting ways of expressing your thoughts.”

“Ah, I knew you weren’t from around here,” said Bones, taking a sip of his drink and crossing one leg over the other. 

Then, there it was. The most minute twitch - if Bones hadn’t been looking directly at Spock he wouldn’t have noticed it, but the corner of Spock’s mouth lifted in a smile. A small spark danced in Bones’ belly, and he didn’t have it in him to be ashamed for his delight at so trivial a victory.

“Indeed, you have me there, Doctor McCoy.”

“So,” said Bones, “what else are you allowed to disclose here? Got a name for where you’re from?”

Spock shook his head.

“You have already proven yourself so competent in your analysis of my answers, where do you believe I am from?”

“Not a clue!” said Bones happily, “Jim says you’re probably a professor or something though, from the way you speak.”

“You may tell Sheriff Kirk that he is, as people from around here are so fond of saying, speaking out of his nether regions.”

Bones stared at Spock for several moments, before bursting out in peals of laughter.

“Oh I will. I will be _sure_ to tell him that Spock, that’s good.”

There it was, the tiny smile again. It was barely there, but the transformative effect it had on Spock’s face was extraordinary. His brown eyes filled with warmth, and even the severity of his angular features seemed to soften.

“So what brought you all the way out here anyway? ”

“This question you may have my answer to. I wished to explore more of what this world had to offer me.”

“Hell of a town to pick for that.”

It was true - nothing really happened around here. There were no particularly large businesses, no gold around, very little in the way of viable farmland. They were a halfway point, a speck on the map, a nothing town. 

“Do you not also live here, Doctor? What is your reason for staying here, then?”

Bones let his head drop. He should have known Spock would want answers back. Well, it was only fair.

“I’m running away, I guess. It’s a good town for that sort of thing.”

“What sort?”

“Runnin’ away. Disappearin’.”

Spock watched him, his expression unreadable. He turned the glass around and around in his hands, then tapped his fingers against the side.

“It appears we have the same motives behind our choice of town, then.”

Bones wanted to make a big deal of that revelation, but the enormity of what Spock had just trusted him with was too much to gamble with, and Bones wracked his brains instead for what he could say next. Spock was running from something too? 

Spock beat him to it.

“What could a doctor be running from?” he said. There was no suspicion in the question, only simple curiosity. Damn.

“Oh, that’s a great question,” said Bones, huffing out a laugh that was entirely devoid of humour, “it’s - and look, if you figure you want to end this conversation here when I say, let me just tell you it’s fine. I get it.”

“There is very little you could say that would surprise me,” said Spock.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” said Bones, his voice wavering as fear suddenly gripped him.

“I-” Bones’ throat closed over as he choked on that ever-familiar shame, “I was an army doctor.”

Spock watched him, waiting for something. Did he want him to elaborate? He wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do it, it would be torture to go into the horrid details, the embarrassment of what he had done-

“I do not understand,” said Spock, “you are running from the army?”

“Not exactly,” said Bones, “I just wasn’t cut out for the army. So I’m running away from the kind of a reputation that gives you.”

“I cannot imagine that a healer of people would find any solace in a situation where men kill and maim each other on the daily.”

Bones finished the rest of his drink. Mostly because he needed it, but also because he could feel that something in his chest begin to tremble again. He gripped his glass hard.

“I was supposed to be there to help. What good can you do when you’re just patching kids up as best as you can just to send them back out again?”

“Doctor McCoy,” said Spock, leaning forwards, “there is nothing shameful in-”

“Don’t.”

He couldn’t hear what Spock had to say on the matter. What he had thought was going to be a friendly conversation had suddenly dug up the sob that had been building in his chest for the past two years. He could feel it there, pressing against his heart.

“I have seen many who fear those in your profession. Nobody in this town fears you. You are a good man, Doctor. A kind man. It vexes me that there are those who cannot see that.”

Bones kept his head bowed, examining the bottom of his empty glass. The ability to respond had left him, and it was all he could do to fight down the sudden onslaught of emotion that threatened to choke him.

“I apologise too, Doctor. I am not well versed in interacting with people. I hope you will forgive me.”

“S’fine,” whispered Bones.

“I have upset you, and I apologise for that, also.”

“S’ _fine_ , Spock.”

“Thank you for the drink. I must return to my work now.”

Bones dug his nails into the palm of his hand as hard as he could, and forced his gaze up once more.

“Don’t be a stranger, Spock,” he said, making his best attempt at a smile.

“Indeed, I will not,” said Spock, tipping his hat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bones registered that it was odd that he had not removed it at any point. Then again, Spock was odd like that. Spock left, and as the door swung closed behind him Bones let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He buried his face in his hands for a brief moment, threading his fingers roughly through his hair, before going to put their glasses away. It was only then that he realised that, in that whole time, Spock hadn’t touched his drink.

The thought was strangely funny to him, that perhaps he didn’t drink at all. Or that he didn’t like whisky. Either way, he hadn’t bothered to say anything to Bones, too polite to do anything but turn the glass over and over in his hands. Bones shook his head, and laughed. *

Days passed, and when Bones wasn’t seeing to a patient, he was working on his cabin. The windows needed fixing, and there were a few cracks in the walls that needed replacing. He was not especially good with his hands, and the work was hard and slow. He tried to make the time pass more quickly by turning over his conversation with Spock in his mind, picking it apart bit by bit, committing it to memory. He wasn’t sure why his mind decided to do that, why it latched onto certain details. Or onto certain people. For him it had always been another notch to add onto his list of things he felt ashamed of. But inside his mind, nobody could see what he was thinking, and so he gave himself this one guilty pleasure while he hammered and sawed and sanded his way through the afternoons.

Of course, he had not ordered nearly the right amount of nails, nor even the right kind, as he found. His were too short for the job, and the day he stepped out to go to the general store was another hot one, as though the weather had sensed that he was in an irritable mood and had caught to make things as bad for him as possible. Of course, that was another sure sign that he was in a bad mood - he even blamed the sun for its relentless pounding on top of his head.

The street was still busy, no matter how hot it was outside. People lingered in doorways and under awnings to talk, trying to keep to the shade where they could. Horses kicked up dust and riders spat to the side of the street. Bones hurried down to the general store, then realised halfway that the path would bring him past the telegraph office as well. Perhaps he could see if Spock was around. Then he could-

A huge explosion sent Bones falling to the floor and covering his head to protect himself, the involuntary reaction another relic from his time in the army. Once he had recovered his wits, he found everyone running towards a great black plume of smoke that was coming from somewhere a little further down the street. Could it be? No.

It was coming from the telegraph office.

Bones was running even before he realised he’d made the decision, driven only by the one thought - _Spock!_ \- and skidded to a halt in front of the burnt remains of the building, still aflame. People had gathered and were exclaiming in surprise and fear, but nobody made a move to enter the building. Bones coughed as he drew close. The acrid smell of the smoke was strange to his senses. This was not the smell of burning wood, there was something else in there as well, something that smelled dangerous and alien to him. 

His eyes were already streaming as he squinted, trying to see some sign of movement. There was nothing. Bones picked his way through to the ruins of the office, looking from left to right to see if he could find something, anything of Spock. The epicentre of the explosion seemed to be a strange collection of twisted metal and wires. The telegraph machine? Bones didn’t know enough about how it all worked to be sure, but a part of him felt as though there was something very odd about how it looked. There was no time to figure it out, because he could feel the smoke filling his lungs more and more with every second that passed, as he struggled for breath, sweat streaming into his eyes as he looked around. Then - there! A hand, trapped underneath a fallen wall. Spock!

Bones heaved at the wood, which thankfully crumbled into pieces as he pushed at it, and managed to haul Spock’s insensible body out, and sling it onto his shoulders. 

He staggered out of the ruins, then collapsed onto the main street, Spock’s body tumbling to the ground with him. 

“Bones!”

“Jim,” he croaked, “get him to mine.”

“Bones, are you alright?”

Bones responded with a terrible hacking cough that left him gasping for air, but he waved his hand at Spock.

“Get him to mine. Boil some water. Be there. Just gotta - gotta catch my breath.”

He lay back, panting hard, watching as Jim scooped Spock up in his arms.

“Are you sure you-”

“Go!” 

The force of shouting brought another coughing fit on, and Bones prayed that whatever happened, he’d at least hold on for long enough to make sure Spock was okay. He was now his patient, after all.

*

Bones didn’t know how much time had passed when he staggered into his cabin, but Jim - bless him - had deposited Spock on the table Bones often used to operate, and had water boiling on the stove. He’d started cutting Spock’s shirt off him, not that there was much shirt there left to cut, given how badly singed the thing was.

“Bones, are you going to be alright to do this?” said Jim.

“We’re about to find out,” replied Bones, rolling up his sleeves. He must look a sight, he thought, looking at his soot covered hands and realising his face must look the same. He washed his hands, then went over to look at Spock.

“I don’t know what exploded in there,” said Jim, “but there’s some sort of awful green stuff all over him. Must’ve been using the office for some sort of… experiment or something?”

“Or something,” muttered Bones, looking Spock over. He was completely covered in soot and grime, and just as Jim had said, there was a strange green liquid all over him, crusted over in places.

Jim was at his elbow with the hot water. Bandages had been set out. There were clean cloths in the basin of water. 

“You’re a gem,” said Bones, taking the basin from him.

“Bones,” said Jim, “I’ve just had an explosion in my town. I can’t stay here.”

“No, ‘course not,” said Bones, swallowing another cough, “go on out there, Sheriff.”

“I’ll check in on you when it’s over.”

“Not if I check on you first.”

Then Jim was out, and Bones was alone.

First thing was first; he was going to have to get Spock cleaned up so he could see what he was dealing with. He set about carefully cleaning each of the filthy limbs, the face, the chest, the hands. Upon closer inspection, Spock had been incredibly lucky. He had broken his arm cleanly, which would be relatively easy to set. He continued cleaning, and found that every time he thought he’d gotten rid of the green goo, it only came back again. He wiped a cut, and watched in a mixture of fascination and horror as the green oozed its way back. Was that Spock’s blood? Bones’ breath caught, and with shaking fingers he reached out and felt his pulse. Sure enough, the heartbeat raced beneath his fingers like that of a small animal. No human’s pulse felt like this. Last of all, Bones reached up and unwound the bandana that Spock always wore around his head, under his hat. Surely - 

His ears were pointed.

Bones had no idea what any of it meant. But he knew how to clean and stitch a wound, and set a broken bone, and he would do that, no matter what colour his patient’s blood. So he set about his work methodically, falling back on his training at treating every step as something separate from himself. There was no Spock, there was merely an arm, a leg, a scrape, a jagged wound that needed cleaning and stitching and bandaging. Time became nebulous around him at best, and it was not until Spock was clean and bandaged that he realised night had fallen. 

Only then did it also strike him as odd that he was still asleep. Most injured men slipped in and out of consciousness when they had been injured or knocked around, and in the worst cases they awoke confused and combative. Spock, however, had not been woken by anything. That was a worry, because patients who were asleep for that long on their own tended not to wake up afterwards. And that, right, now, was unthinkable.

“You’d better just be asleep,” whispered Bones, resigning himself to a night spent awake, keeping vigil in case Spock were to wake. 

“You’ve got a hell of a lot of questions to answer.”

*

Jim came and found him somewhere in the middle of the night, looking about as worn out as Bones felt. He’d been coughing all night, and had long since given up trying to fight it, given that it seemed nothing would wake Spock from his slumber. Really, if his coughing woke Spock, it would be all for the better.

“That doesn’t sound good,” said Jim, his tired eyes lined with worry.

“Yeah, not much I can do about it,” replied Bones. That wasn’t entirely true, but he was so weary he couldn’t bring himself to get up from his chair to fetch himself some water. He realised his eyes had slid shut when Jim’s hand on his jolted him back into awareness.

“Sorry,” said the Sheriff, taking his hand and wrapping it around a cup of water, “I figured you hadn’t had anything for a while.”

“You were right,” rasped Bones, taking a grateful drink and feeling the water cool his throat. The feeling was nothing short of pure bliss, and he quickly finished the rest.

“How’s our patient?”

“I don’t know,” said Bones. He let his head hang as Jim walked behind him and squeezed his shoulders a few times, working out the tension there.

“Should be doin’ that for you,” said Bones, his words slurring together.

“We’ll take turns. You can do it next time,” said Jim.

Bones couldn’t find a joke to respond with anywhere in him, but they’d been friends for long enough. Jim understood.

“I’m just about done in Bones, I’m heading home. I’d tell you to get some rest too, but I’ve known you too long.”

“I need to be here when he wakes.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The cup was taken from him, refilled, and pressed into his hands once again.

“Good luck, Doctor McCoy.”

“Thanks, Jim.”

And with that, Jim was out the door.

*

Bones kept himself awake for the rest of the night out of sheer stubbornness, driven by the burning curiosity he had for who - or indeed what the hell Spock was.

It was early morning, around the time of the soft rays of morning light, when birds had begun to shriek outside the windows, that there was any change with Spock.

At first, Bones was unsure of what the sound was. It was an odd sound, a muffled mess of syllables that he then realised were coming from Spock’s mouth.

“Spock?” he said, searching Spock’s face.

There it was again - the sound. Spock’s lips moved imperceptibly.

“What was that?”

Bones brought his ear down next to Spock’s lips. He could have sworn Spock had said “hit me.”

“Spock, I can’t hear you, it sounds like you’re saying hit me? Can you hear me Spock?”

“Doctor, I did say hit me.”

Bones drew back, his eyes wide.

“You can hear me! Spock, you’ve got to wake up. Listen to the sound of my voice.”

“I can’t wake up,” again that tiny, muffled sound, “unless. You hit me.”

Hit him? Spock was clearly delirious.

“You must trust me. I am not human.”

“You could say that again.”

Bones raised a hand hesitantly.

“I’m gonna hit you, Spock.”

“Please. Quickly.”

Bones gritted his teeth, then brought his hand swiftly down on Spock’s face. There was no change in his expression, no reaction.

“Again,” said Spock.

“Oh, lord have mercy,” pleaded Bones, but he obeyed, hitting Spock again and again until suddenly the strange man’s eyes fluttered open, and he was staring into a clear-eyed, lucid Spock.

“Thank you,” said Spock, struggling onto his elbows.

“Oh no you don’t, you lie back down,” said Bones, pushing down on Spock’s chest. Spock did not move, and in fact his action earned Bones a raised eyebrow.

“I assure you Doctor, thanks to your help I am very much recovered from my condition last night. Except for the broken bone, which I fear will take a little longer.”

“Spock, you are _covered_ in cuts. For gods sake man, you were blown up!”

Spock blinked at that.

“You are correct, of course. The telegraph?”

“Blown to smithereens.”

Spock’s eyes looked skywards momentarily, but then they snapped back to Bones.

“No matter. I have all the time in the world, I suppose.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And while we’re at it, do you care to explain some of these other things as well? Like say, the colour of your blood? And me having to smack you in the-”

Bones broke off as a cough seized him and he bent double, tears springing into his eyes as he hacked up the soot in his lungs. The attack left him panting, clinging to the table’s edge, his legs trembling with exhaustion. Spock swung his legs off the table and came to his side, placing his good hand on his elbow.

“I fear it is now you who require rest, doctor,”

“Don’t think you’re gettin’ out of explaining that easily,” snapped Bones.

“No, I will be here when you wake,” said Spock, “you are currently in no shape to process what I have to tell you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to-”

Spock placed cool fingers on his brow, and whispered _sleep_ , and Bones suddenly found himself buried under the sudden onslaught of unconsciousness. He slept.

*

Bones floated in unconsciousness for a while before he woke. It was not like the usual sleep he had. Usually his slumber was fitful, full of snatches of memories. He was sleeping on the ground. He was sleeping in a tent. He was sleeping in shifts, keeping watch at all times. He could never really find it in himself to relax completely, not when his sleep was forever plagued with restless fears that wormed their way into his dreams and more often than not, turned them to nightmares.

Right now though, his sleep was soft. That was the only word for it - the hard edges of his consciousness were worn away, pillowed against something he could not quite name nor recognise. He slept deeply, though he was certain it was not mere exhaustion that kept him under so effectively. Somewhere in the back of his conscious mind, he knew Spock had something to do with this. Spock, or at least some vague sense of him, was there throughout his sleep, though it was the sensation of him rather than the physical presence. 

When Bones woke, he found that he felt rested in a way he could not remember having been in a long time. He had been put to bed, and was under the blankets. His shoes had been removed. There was a cup of water on the table by the side of the bed. And Spock was there, sitting in the chair he had sat when Bones had invited him in, his arms crossed, his posture now much more relaxed than it had been the last time he had sat there.

Bones blinked several times, then shook his head to clear it.

“Well doctor,” he said, “what’s the diagnosis?”

Spock looked back at him, and the corner of his mouth lifted. Bones’ heart soared, and he felt light and full. Solid. Real.

“I believe I owe you some answers,” said Spock.

“You certainly do,” said Bones, wriggling into a sitting position, “feels weird that I’m in bed and you’re sittin’ there, though.”

“Perhaps if you were to purchase another chair,” said Spock mildly.

Bones chose to ignore that, settling back against the wall instead, and mirroring Spock’s crossed arms.

“Well? The floor’s yours, Spock.”

Spock nodded, then drew a deep breath.

“I did not lie to you. I am indeed not from these parts. In fact, I am not from this planet at all.”

“I’d say pull the other one, but I’ve seen that green stuff that passes for your blood.”

“Indeed. I also did not lie when I told you that I came here on a journey of discovery.”

“As well as running away from something.”

A person could do both. Bones could buy that.

“I am not fully… considered a member of the race of my home planet. My father married one of your kind. A human.”

“Oh?” Bones was beginning to piece it together, “you’re here to see a bit of your home town, then? And I figure the people back home aren’t too keen on the whole… mixing of races thing?”

“In addition, my father is… an unpleasant man. You are taking this remarkably well, for a human.”

“Yeah, well. When you’re a doctor you can’t exactly run screaming every time something weird comes out of the woodwork. Plus, there’s the matter of the-”

“Of the green blood, yes.”

“It’s weird. Just about the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Yet you are still here.”

“Where the hell else am I meant to go? You’re the one who came here, Spock.”

“Indeed.”

Spock shifted in his seat. Bones knew enough at this point to know that this meant his stoic friend was deeply uncomfortable.

“Then there is the matter of the telegraph office.”

Bones suddenly sat bolt upright in the bed.

“Now, if you go tellin’ me you did that on purpose, I’m gonna-”

“Peace, Doctor. I did no such thing - but it is unfortunately my fault. I cut ties with my home planet when I came here. I took on your way of life, found work, tried to learn the ways of your people. My mother’s people. But then I… I found that here, it was no better. Your people, if you pardon my honesty, are largely cruel and uncaring. I have been working on a method for communicating with my home planet.”

“You’re trying to leave?” said Bones. The thought hurt, though he did not want to examine why just now.

“I _was-_ ”

“Damn you, of course you were. Running back to your home planet because the big mean Earth people’re too much.”

“Doctor, you are being cruel.”

“I’m being real!”

Bones didn’t know where the sudden onslaught of anger came from, but it coursed through him, intensifying the more he spoke, the more he thought about the prospect of Spock decicing he’d had enough, and jetting back off to whatever star or moon or planet he had come from. It was hypocritical of course, but he was _angry._

“You realise it’s not gonna be any different when you get back there! I mean, you must’ve left for a reason in the first place. There must be a reason why you hated it there. That reason’s still gonna be there.”

“Perhaps,” said Spock. There was no conviction in his voice.

“For certain,” said Bones, “have you dealt with it? If not, it’s still gonna be there. And whatever you hate about Earth - that’s still gonna be here as well, when you get back to wherever it is you came from and figure that out. That’s the way the world - the universe, I guess - works. It all kind of sucks.”

Spock took a deep breath, then exhaled sharply through his nose.

“What I’m trying to say is,” said Bones, focusing very hard on trying to make his voice as gentle as possible, “which one is less terrible? Which one has something you can try and make work for you?”

Spock’s eyes were trained on the ground and he sat in the chair, unmoving. Bones couldn’t tell what his body language meant, or what could possibly be going through his head. The silence became unbearable, and every fiber of Bones’ being screamed to fill it.

“I dunno what you’ve got going for you back on your home planet,” he said, “but here you’ve got Jim. And you’ve got me. I know the two of us want to try our hardest to make this place bearable for you.”

Spock nodded silently.

“Both of you have been inordinately kind to me. It is difficult-”

“I’m not sayin’ you’ve got to make a choice right now. But I think you could stand to stick around for a bit longer while you figure out how to telegraph your home planet, hm?”

“It is not a telegraph.”

Bones blinked. Spock looked very serious - but then, he always seemed to look quite serious.

“Sorry?”

“Telegraph is an extremely archaic form of communication where I am from. We do not use it.”

“Ah, alright?”

After essentially pouring his heart out to Spock, that was not the turn Bones had been expecting the conversation to take.

“I believe I may have to educate you on the matter. After all, human curiosity is legendary.”

Bones searched Spock’s expression and found his dark eyes full of affection. Spock reached out and held his wrist.

“It may take some time,” he said, and Bones had his answer. Relief flooded him, and the hard knot of fear that had built up between his shoulders loosened.

“In that case,” replied Bones, “I’ll see about getting myself that second chair.”


End file.
